


the spy who fucked me (over)

by pensee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A la Roman Fell, Alternate Universe - James Bond, Alternate Universe - Spies and Assassins, Could just be Hannibal messing with him, Could just be Will being paranoid, Cover identities, F/M, Goofy levels of movie violence tagging just in case, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, It’s Complicated, M/M, Movie Violence, Nothing explicit, OC target is an awful human being, Plot mention of human trafficking, Pretend Relationship, Whether the Hannibal/Bedelia is real is up to interpretation, Will Graham is not willingly or knowingly a cannibal, marriage and divorce, past relationship, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 23:36:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19711813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: Newly-minted double-o candidate Will Graham has been itching for some career advancement ever since his ex-husband faked his death, and up and left him for some counterintelligence agent Will had never even heard of in his former tenure as Asset Manager for MI6.Lo and behold, M has a sick sense of humor, and Will’s last candidacy assignment before becoming a full-fledged agent involves not only killing someone, but also a bit of creative play-acting with a supposedly-deceased familiar face.(The moral of the story is that Will can never properly remember Bedelia Du Maurier’s name. Whether this is for spite or for real is anyone’s guess.)





	the spy who fucked me (over)

**Author's Note:**

> Been watching the Craig Bond movies lately, so that’s my excuse. Don’t need to have watched James Bond to get this fic, but Will’s final spy-candidacy exam (which takes up the bulk of this) basically involves assassinating two MI6-sanctioned targets (one of which is featured here). I also have no idea the policy on foreign or naturalized British citizens working for the intelligence services, but let’s just say it’s possible for the sake of this.

Last Will heard of his ex-husband, Hannibal had shirked his duties in exchange for a beach house in the Seychelles and some blonde French honeytrap named Amelia du Muriel or something. Whether killed in action or just missing in the line of duty, not even an entreating letter from the Queen herself could’ve returned him to service.

Disappeared clean off the map after leaving to assassinate Mason Verger, an eccentric billionaire who made a habit of extorting money off stolen government secrets. It’d been a dangerous job that reportedly left him with life-threatening injuries or worse (billions could buy a lot of private security and corrupt peace officers, after all), but Will had expected Hannibal to pop in one day, unannounced, to finish the shitshow of an argument they’d been unable to resolve before Queen and Country came calling. Despite Will’s utter confidence in Hannibal wanting to have the last word about everything, he never showed. 

Not even Will, teary-eyed and very much in the public eye at a sham funeral, burying an empty coffin—Freddie Lounds and her stupid tabloid articles tracking every moment of it—had swayed him. And Will, understanding the implications loud and clear, had divorced a dead man, and shoved Hannibal’s Commendation for Valor to the back of their walk-in closet. After that disaster of a month, Will finally and gladly called it quits on that portion of his life.

Too bad for Will, Hannibal soon proved he had the unfortunate ability of rising from the dead. 

“M doesn’t think you’re ready, even if you managed to pull it out of your arse with the Dolarhyde hit. He’s ordered a partnered mission for your last trial. You don’t exactly have a reputation for playing well with others, Graham,” Bloom says, nonetheless putting a companionable hand on Will’s shoulder.

Her relatively shorter stature had once made him uncomfortable—didn’t want to appear as if he was looming—but after a few months of acting as one of her handlers, he’d quickly found out that she was rather strategically meant to appear disarmingly slight in her practical blazers and flat, fashionable boots. 

Made it a lot easier to stick the knife in if they never saw it coming, and she’d made double-o within five years of joining, while he’d circled the drain tracking international criminals and rouge assets for a less-than-grateful supervisor for twice that.

But now, it was his turn to face the last trials, and he wasn’t going to let a little roadblock like a lack of social skills get in his way of making it as a full-fledged agent. 

It was about time he earned some bloody respect around here. 

“Piss off, Alana. Don’t say that with a straight face like Jack doesn’t have a hair up his ass about hiring his first _American_ double-o. The very point of being a double-o is that they work alone.”

He doesn’t shrug off Alana’s hand, though, which is a vast improvement in Tolerating Interpersonal Communication, in his opinion.

Suck on that, M.

“Well, you’re not a double-o quite yet, sweetie. Hacked internal systems to get M’s real name, just to prove you could. That’s not exactly showing company support…It is a legitimate concern; working as an agent doesn’t exactly mean you have to be a people person twenty-four seven, but you do have to be good at a few—.”

A few things like being a soulless prick who can manipulate people into doing anything he wants? Will snorts to himself.

Check, and check. 

Lived with it for years; think I can imitate it well enough to get the job done. 

“I know. Honeypots, joint operations with the CIA, FBI, Interpol, et cetera. Diplomatic security gestures—I’ve heard the whole spiel from the Ministry liaison, you’re not telling me anything new. Just tell me if there’s anything special I need to know, before I go on this last trial mission. You’ve already passed every test there is, 003.”

Alana gets a peculiar look on her face that’s between humbled and amused. “I’m going to ignore the insulting tone, because it’s you, Will. But let’s just say that getting along means not interrupting your conversational partner. Start with that. And, erm, be prepared for anything. Serious jeopardy-to-your-person-or-to-your-loved-ones kind of anything.”

Expression flat and friendly, as usual, Will can’t bloody well get a read on whether Alana’s joking or not, despite the fact that he actually could be quite good at people if he wanted. The details and what made them tick, even if he didn’t have much use for reading microexpressions and stress-tells outside of MI6’s walls.

Must be the anticipation messing with me, he reasons, not wanting to admit that the irritating tingle in his stomach is something like fear. 

Use it, Graham. Don’t chicken out now. 

“I’m just fucking with you,” Alana laughs, mussing up Will’s hair a bit, as if he isn’t an adult both too old for noogies and a half head taller, wearing a very painstakingly put together Burberry suit.

Bloody animal.

“Thanks for the pep talk. I think,” Will rolls his eyes, nervously straightening his tie, checking the provided Swiss-made timepiece. Waiting for an assignment to drop out of the sky, most likely, since it seems that not even Alana knows what’s behind door number one.

“Seventeen hundred sharp,” Bloom observes, patting him on the back, signaling it’s time to go. “Just in time for dinner.”

“Have a good one, Alana,” he waves, Bloom’s eyes dancing like the Fourth of July.

So, she knows something, after all.

“Same to you, Graham. Good luck,” she says, and vanishes down a turn in the subterranean corridor.

Taking a deep breath, Will turns to discover the course of the rest of his life.

The car ride to the airfield is unnecessarily silent, and Will uses the time to reflect not on the future, but on the past.

His making the transition from Asset Management (one of MI6’s unofficial catch-all nannies, really) to double-o was uncommon, at the very least. Cross departmental positions were usually reserved for those no longer fit for active field duty, but Crawford had owed him one, for finding Miriam Lass’s killer by following a digital trail one afternoon and doing what an entire investigative department couldn’t have done in the three years since she disappeared.

_That_ was what M really had a hair up his ass about: he was continuing to lose valuable people, to death by foreign entities or by transferring out, and he didn’t want to risk Will’s loyalties being split by his brief background in American intelligence.

_Or maybe he thinks I’ll end up just like her_ , he thinks, feeling a vestigial sting of fear, quickly exemplified by thoughts of Miriam’s severed limbs, her cold, white face.

He knows he doesn’t want to die like that, and hell if fifteen years of training in assorted areas of top secrecy is going to end up with him in a little box that now even Hannibal won’t be home to bury.

Dusk has fallen over the city, and Will spends the rest of the journey staring at Zeller and Price’s unsmiling faces, though Bev cracks a grin at him in the rearview mirror, Price breaking character and stifling a suspicious giggle that really gets Will wondering what the hell he’s about to be tasked with.

Seduce a corrupt foreign dignitary and smother him between sweet nothings in a gilded hotel room? God, he hopes the target’s not ancient, if it’s to be a honeypot mission. He’s had enough of disappointing old men to last him a lifetime.

“Deep breaths. It always helps with the rage,” Price whispers to him, Will spotting a small private jet as they round on the tarmac, a familiar figure cutting quite the profile in a tuxedo worth ten thousand bloody pounds. There standing the only reason Will can tell how much a fucking piece of luxury clothing is worth at a glance, his formerly “officially declared dead” and soon to be irrevocably deceased egotistical sadist of a cheating ex-husband, Hannibal Lecter the fucking Eighth, Count of a duchy that no longer exists, and eternal Pain in Will’s Ass.

“Convenient, he’s already dressed for another funeral,” Will mutters under his breath, Zeller grabbing him by the arm.

“Whoa, cowboy,” he starts, but Will’s already off and running, Hannibal with this big, idiotic smile on his face, greeting him with open arms like Will’s ready to fall into them, a silly, stupidly forgiving beloved still clutching the damned monogrammed hanky his husband left him with ages ago.

“Not so, you bastard,” Will says aloud, mostly sure Hannibal will be able to get the gist of his train of thought as he ducks out of the way of Will’s first punch, not fast enough to miss the second, doubling over from a slugger to the gut as Will grins triumphantly, planning for more.

“ _Please_ tell me the mission is to put a bullet between his eyes,” Will says, realizing for the first time that his situational awareness is definitely still shit when he’s around his husband—ex-husband, his mind supplies—because it takes him another few moments to notice M himself waiting nearby with a look of pure relish on his face, arms behind his back, patient as a sphinx.

“Unfortunately for you, no,” Jack Crawford says. “To our knowledge, 009 hasn’t committed any prosecutable crimes against the Crown or country, and I wouldn’t give you such a plum assignment for your last trial, Will. You’re supposed to be doing us favors, not the other way around.”

“He isn’t _technically_ a British citizen,” Will murmurs. “And a lack of born-and-bred citizenship seems to be enough to piss you off lately.”

“What was that, Graham?” M says, feigning at being hard of hearing. The day Crawford truly admitted his age would be a cold day in hell, Will was sure.

“What’s the assignment, then,” he snaps, suddenly regretting his own choice in attire. Reasonably expensive, but cheap in comparison to Hannibal’s. They would be going somewhere together, otherwise Crawford wouldn’t be here as a buffer.

“You’re going to Paris, to intercept an American transport. The CIA’s gotten ahold of a man called the Apothecary. Used to be a researcher at a Chinese university, before he started selling bioweapons out the backdoor of his lab. Great at mass producing regular poisons, too.”

“He’s supplied to rebels in Africa, given small doses to the IRA. Reports claim he deposited a DNA virus into the water supply outside of a small village along the Yellow River, just to test its virulence. A thousand people died,” Hannibal says.

“The Americans want to use him for their own purposes,” Jack says. “The Crown and the Prime Minister are a few of the many who find that opinion…unsavory.”

“He’s developed a virus that can survive outside of a living body?” Will gulps.

“For a finite amount of time, but for much longer than previous, erm, attempts,” Price cuts in, and Crawford frowns, working up to the point.

“Kill him, all on your own. Don’t worry about the Apothecary’s research, I’ve got 004 and half of Q branch collecting what we can as we speak. Yours is a strict kill mission.

”Have Hannibal attest to you being the triggerman on the Apothecary, and you’ll be a double-o by tomorrow. Full briefing’s in the packet on the plane.”

“Wh—‘On my own’? Trial missions are supposed to be solo, why is Hannibal even here?” Will steams, for once, Beverly and the boys shrugging uncomfortably.

“Because I don’t like you. I don’t think you have what it takes to undercut the Americans, or that you would work well either as a solo double-o or in collaboration with a partner or team, rare as those opportunities would be,” Crawford says, and Will scowls.

“No, of course not, Graham. Bloom was right, you are quite a stick in the mud,” Crawford amends, moments after, the tense atmosphere dissipating save the cloud of general disgust hanging over Will’s head.

“He happened to be in town, and you worked well together, back when you were a manager. Your husband’s been gone for a while, collecting assets in corners of the world you won’t be ready to touch for a long time, even if you do make double-o tonight. Consider it an opportunity for a prep course in all things horrible.”

Every moment being married to him was that, Will thinks, though he’s viewing every good memory, too, through the veil of betrayal.

“See you in the morning, M,” he says, swallowing his annoyance at the other man’s underestimation of his readiness.

I’ll show you, old man.

Crawford nods curtly, and returns to the SUV, Zeller scrambling to open his door.

“Break a leg, Graham,” M calls, a dry, wheezy chuckle in his voice.

Will’s mouth flattens as his gaze ventures away from M’s retreating SUV and to his expectant husband.

“Hello, lover,” Hannibal grins, and Will notices he’s smoothed his ridiculously pomaded hair back into place, straightened his tux.

“Fuck off,” Will says, and hurries ahead to the waiting plane.

The dossier on the Apothecary wasn’t thick on personal information so much as it was on _proclivities_.

“We’re posing as a married couple…of human traffickers?” Will half-gags, Hannibal annoyingly reaching over to flip open a separate packet with details of their cover identities.

“I used Roman Fell’s credentials on a drug run in Ibiza, a decade or so back,” Hannibal explains. “He served my purposes well enough, and built quite the reputation for being able to provide whatever poison a target could fancy...”

Will had learned many years ago, how the Treasury sometimes leaned on the intelligence sector to get the money they needed to keep the government going by illegal means, but it was still unsettling to hear it aloud. Jack up the law and get under it when it suited them, Will thought, but it wasn’t like he had any room to talk.

“So, what? You met me, or _bought_ me, and we fell in love?”

He throws down the sheaf of papers, scoffing, seeing the residual hurt in Hannibal’s eyes.

He had actually expected the big reunion moment, when Will had walked up to him on that tarmac; what a delusional moron.

“The Apothecary has...distinct tastes...from what the Americans can tell. Interpol had tried to charge him for assorted crimes against humanity in Russia and Serbia, but someone always swooped in to try to recruit him to their cause, and the charges were never realized. The U.S. is just the last in a long line of flimsy loyalties to whomever promised to protect him best. You’re going to be doing a good thing by eliminating him, Will.”

“But first I have to pretend to be selling this abomination a few innocent people for the night. And pretend to be in love with you, for the sake of the cover.”

Hannibal nods evenly, knowing that the pretense of innocents mixed up in something this heinous, even peripherally, is not a comforting thought to either of them.

“Well, you were always better at pretending than I was,” Will says, unlucky in the reality that there’s not a lot of places for him to storm off to, but staying firmly planted in his chair, staring his ex-husband down. The least he deserves, and he’s not going to be the one to blink first.

With a defeated sigh, Hannibal disappears into the cockpit, not bothering to look back.

_Good_ , Will thinks, swallowing the scream that wants to come out. _Wouldn’t want me to think you cared_.

The Apothecary—Will doesn’t think he’s earned being humanized by a proper name—is wearing cheap cologne and an ugly brown suit, wilted by sleeping in it for the past few nights. By virtue of Will being a wrinkled-shirt-and-corduroys person at heart, this would have endeared him to Will had they met under different circumstances, if Will hadn’t known what he was.

“My business partners are far too protective of me,” the Apothecary simpers, up too close and personal for Will’s comfort. “I haven’t had a single bit of fun in ages.”

“There are a few bits of merchandise at our apartment,” Hannibal says, and the Apothecary hisses in regret.

“Hm, well, you see, it’s more of a probational situation. My partners say I can’t go anywhere without them allowing it.”

A sane man would not have been blind to the poorly concealed holsters and the knockout at the bar that seemed just a bit too interested in their conversation, but a greedy man wouldn’t have cut his losses so easily. It wasn’t difficult to find people with “distinct tastes” amongst the wealthy, but one who was so ready to deal with a near-stranger was unique.

“But I’ve heard about what you did in Ibiza and Montenegro, all those years ago. I’m sure you can figure something out for me, yes?”

The Apothecary’s buggish eyes settle on Will.

“Snagged this tasty thing for yourself. While we’re waiting for the product to arrive, do you share?”

Now Will’s convinced fully that Crawford meant to humiliate him, as he bats his eyes at a man commonly known in the intelligence community as a monster, invites him into the apartment’s sitting room, far from where his CIA babysitters can follow without looking like a suspicious pack of peeping toms.

The female agent picks up her purse from the bar and follows, but Hannibal shoves her into a side bedroom and deals with her. Whether that means knocking her out or worse, Will doesn’t need to know, but Hannibal’s familiar with the interagency pissing contests that go around, and knows weekly politics doesn’t need to be spiced with the flavor of the girl’s blood.

Gives them anywhere from thirty seconds to a few minutes alone, if no one’s recognized Hannibal yet, and it should be enough.

“I never understood it, why other men share,” the Apothecary is going on, tugging at Will’s jacket, trying to yank him closer by his tie.

The sitting room has no bed, but a rose damasked divan sits by an empty fireplace, begging for guests.

Will closes his eyes for a moment, thinks of all the possible exits left to them when the Americans realize their asset is dead, and wonders, if this goes pear shaped, whether he’ll have to leave Hannibal behind.

“They don’t think of us like people. Only things,” Will says shakily, cold drip of water down his spine, his mother’s voice in his ear. It’s fuzzy, this long after, but he knows he was a peace offering to a father who never deserved him, though he tried his best.

“The most beautiful things out there,” the Apothecary whispers, and he’s hard, trying to drive Will against the wall, but Will’s faster, with a silenced weapon in his breast pocket.

Under the Apothecary’s chin.

Tap-tap.

Light going out in the man’s eyes, and he’s not a monster anymore, just a slab of meat.

Will thought he would feel something, when he finally killed with his own two hands, but this time, like it was with Dolarhyde, it’s a bullet, and he doesn’t feel anything.

He jumps at a loud bang from behind the door, the unmistakable slump of a body. No one’s trying to be subtle. Thinking back to the other people mingling by the bar, he frowns. Not all those poorly concealed holsters belonged to the Americans.

Open the door, heart beating hard, vision too clear.

“Hannibal,” he calls, down an almost empty hall.

The female agent’s outside the bedroom now, slumped over with two bullets through her sternum and a sluggishly growing puddle of blood beneath her. 

A big stranger with a buzz cut is standing over the body, automatic weapon in hand. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Will grimaces internally. Oh, Jesus.

“Hey!” the stranger calls, looking up with bloodlust in his eyes, and Will raises his gun and shoots, managing to catch him off guard.

The resulting wound’s fatal if it bleeds enough, but the guy’s big and wearing a vest. He grunts in pain, but doesn’t go down.

Better luck next time.

The big man’s a Russian, Will remembers. Former military hit squad, a mercenary for top dollar. Figures someone else besides the Americans wanted the Apothecary back.

“Little shit,” the Russian pants, firing back and catching Will in the shoulder as he dives back into the room with the Apothecary’s body, skull blown to pieces, some of which Will lands in as he slams the door.

Andiron, a few flimsy chairs, and another magazine left, five bullets left in his gun. A letter opener, and a few heavy encyclopedia volumes.

Couldn’t storm Fort Knox with it, and none of it gives him a chance against a mercenary giant who’ll miss a big paycheck when he learns the Apothecary’s dead.

The andiron’s his best bet. The Russian will shoot through the door and wait for a body to drop before he comes in. At least he’ll be able to take that to whoever hired him; killed the guy that killed their asset, if he isn’t hunted down for sport once his bosses find out.

When the bullets come, Will’s ducked behind the desk, lets his hold on the Apothecary’s bloody collar go. The body hits the hardwood, and the Russian shoves the door open. 

Will’s firing at the other man’s head as soon as he sees a flicker of the Russian’s body at the threshold, but he’s not the only one, the mercenary’s skull exploding into the room as a bullet fragment ricochets off the fireplace and buries itself in the floor.

He hears a grunt from the doorway, and Hannibal—blood soaked and still in his full tux with a ripped-halfway-to-hell jacket—stands there, with a stray bullet from Will’s gun buried in his shoulder.

Coagulated red drips sluggishly off the ends of his messed-up fringe, and whatever he’s going to say catches in his throat as Will rushes over, shoving his gun back into his jacket, burning a hole through his pocket, probably burning his skin too.

None of it matters. 

He’s alive and Hannibal is bleeding from a gunshot wound and maybe more, and—.

Stumbling over his own feet to his ex-husband, Will kisses him for the first time in three years.

“You were dead. I was sure,” Hannibal says, between breaths.

“That’s my line, you gigantic dickswab,” Will laughs hysterically, laying his head good and well on Hannibal’s wounded shoulder, frowning as he doesn’t even get a wince for his efforts.

“Did you—Why did you run three years ago? The Queen herself would’ve given you a commendation for getting Verger, you shouldn’t have—.”

“For the same reason we’re going to run now,” Hannibal says, grabs him by the collar, and pushes him out of the sixth-storey window.

Will yelps on the way down, thinking, _Fool me once_ , on repeat.

“How is it, _ouch_ , you bastard, that there is always a ridiculously perfectly placed awning, or a bleeding-hearted stranger always ready at your beck and call to help?”

“I’m a charming person,” Hannibal shrugs, and Will does get a wince out of him then, Hannibal attempting the gesture and forgetting it’s his bad shoulder.

“You’re an idiot that God just loves to torment me with, apparently,” Will scowls, exhaling loudly through his nose as Hannibal resets his own dislocated fingers.

They’re limping, as dignified as possible, away from the scene of the crime, though the fact that Hannibal looks as if he’s just bathed in red corn syrup isn’t helping things.

“The Russians and the Thai mafia were there, but the ballistics will prove they weren’t the ones who killed the Apothecary. I’ll tell Uncle Jack you did a commendable job,” Hannibal offers, and Will snorts.

“ _I’ll_ tell Jack I did a commendable job. D-Did you really kill—well, whoever you killed—because you felt like protecting a fellow agent? Or was this one of your…ways to blow off steam?”

Will looks at his shoes, the grimy cobblestones beneath, to avoid looking at Hannibal’s reaction. They haven’t talked about this since before Hannibal went off with Amelia Whatshername. Or ever, really.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you were cooking and eating people? Or that Jack was willing to turn a blind eye as long as you killed whoever he asked, kidnapped whoever needed kidnapping, and turned out to be a general nuisance to enemies of the Crown?”

“It’s been a hobby—a pathology, you might call it—since I was a child. Jack just never asked me to stop. Half the people I butchered never existed on paper, anyway.”

He rounds on Hannibal, then, shoves him into an empty doorway. Shadowed and deep, it conceals them well enough from the street.

“It wasn’t—You think it’s about you _eating people_? I sat behind a computer screen directing life or death missions and bounced all over foreign countries and lingered in dark alleys running surveillance for years, watching worse than butchery happen to innocents, to _slaves_ , Hannibal, so that terrorists could get rich.

“Our section intel prevented a half-dozen major nuclear events before I turned thirty. I went to 005’s funeral, and yours, had to bury an empty casket, and you think that you being a fucking _cannibal_ is what pissed me off?”

Hannibal, for once in his life, seems to be at a loss for words.

“Will—,” he says, and that’s what really gets Will, is that he still thinks he can talk his way out of it, like he’s done nothing wrong.

“I told you I didn’t want to see you again—‘Reactively’, by the way, you called me that, the first time we met. Knowing I don’t mean half of the terrible things I say to you, you left me for some loose-lipped counterintelligence agent that you—.”

“Bedelia is long dead, Will. I killed her at her vacation home on Maui. Ate her on your birthday, in your honor. Assumed you wouldn’t want an invitation.

“I was wounded. She intrigued me. The intelligence you obtained about Mason’s whereabouts was very clearly intended to send me to my death, and whatever guilt you felt over it was never enough to reach out to me once you discovered I was alive. Bedelia happened to cross my path, and she was an appropriate distraction from the pain of your betrayal.”

Will’s expression is cold.

“Betrayal—You prick...Who told you I wanted to kill you?” he hisses.

“You had no other reaction to my extracurricular activities other than to tell me to leave our home and never come back. It’s a reasonable jump to think that sending me on a suicide mission would be the logical conclusion to our relationship.”

_Bedelia_ ’s influence on him, and any influence he’d had on her is tangled together in Will’s mind, but he knows there’s going to be a continuing flood of bullshit and memories and negotiation before they’re even close to alright.

Maybe he’s less certain than before, that goodbye meant goodbye forever.

“Why did you kiss me, my dear?” Hannibal asks, his hand on the back of Will’s neck.

Will knows there was a time when that combination of words and gestures would make him melt and that time is not now, though his knees do weaken, probably from the pain of falling and the gunshot wound.

“Don’t you know, baby?” Will smiles, close now, Hannibal’s eyes shining at him through the dark.

“I’m gonna be a double-o.”

Hannibal groans—that was not the confession he’d been looking for—and Will stifles a cackle, walking with a bit more spring in his step.

Another jet’s waiting outside the city, and it’ll be hell getting there, but they’re both tough to kill.

Odds are, they’ll survive.

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, Will salty.


End file.
